


Your Mind Is Not Your Own

by mevennen



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21936820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevennen/pseuds/mevennen
Summary: This is a Christmas present. I have used the idea once before in something else entirely but it just amuses me, so here we go.I will by the way be completing the previous effort, Queen and Country, soon.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Your Mind Is Not Your Own

**Tuesday, December**

Another late night at the office, trying to clear the decks before the festive season kicks in. You leave about nine, heading rapidly through Whitehall to the Embankment. It’s a crisp night: you never can see stars in London very clearly, but there is a sliver of moon shimmering above the Christmas lights. And despite the cold, the walk along the river will clear your head.

You pause for a moment, looking down into the dark water of the Thames. It almost seems to beckon…but you shake your head. Enough of that. No self pity: you decided that a long time ago. No matter how bad things get. And this latest thing, it’s bad, yes, but fundamentally it is just another job, something that has to be done. 

You have to look at it like that.

People are counting on you. 

**Wednesday, December**

The dinner party had gone well. Roderick Mallory had brought caterers in, since he couldn’t exactly be described as a dab hand in the kitchen. The Duke had, however, not only shot dinner himself but also taken it out of the freezer and he hoped that counted. The roast grouse had, in fact, been excellent. He had tried to steer the conversation as far away from politics as possible, a hard task given the company and recent events. But they were mostly old friends, one of his brothers was present (always a good thing) and Roderick had looked down the convivial table, its silver and crystal sparkling in the candlelight, with satisfaction. 

Afterwards, when the rest of the guests had departed, he had offered his brother a nightcap. 

“Good to have a chat with old George,” Gareth said, sitting back and nursing his Lagavulin. “Haven’t seen him for ages.”

“We’re invited up to Denver, by the way. Next year now, obviously.” 

His brother nodded with approval. “I’d like that - it’s been a while. A trip to Norfolk’s always entertaining.”

At length they sought their respective beds, Gareth in the room that was kept for him in the big Kensington house. 

“Pouring with rain out there, Gareth. You don’t want a wet walk back if it can be avoided.” 

Gareth had taken a look out of the window and agreed to borrow a pair of pyjamas. Roderick himself had stayed up for a while, answering some last minute correspondence. 

Now, cleaning his teeth, Roderick reflected that Christmas could now be said to be well underway. He was back from the Hague and wouldn’t be heading out again until later in January, when the trial in which he was involved as part of the prosecution team had resumed. Gareth would be working up to the day before Christmas Eve, but then they would be driving down to Hampshire as usual to join the rest of the family. He was looking forward to that; he thought Gareth was, too. Even if Gareth had once told Roderick’s children that his favourite Biblical character was Herod. 

Carefully, Roderick replaced his toothbrush in the mug and padded down the corridor to bed. As he turned the corner, however, a faint sound attracted his attention. The Duke paused. What was that? The cat? No, it came again. It sounded human. Christian, his private secretary, was still up, but Christian was pottering about in the kitchen and this was coming from the other direction.

Quickly, the Duke headed down the corridor. The sound was definitely emanating from his brother’s room.

He turned the door knob. In the streetlight that glinted through the curtains he saw Gareth roll violently over in bed. An arm flailed out. A voice cried, “No, no. Don’t make me…”

Roderick thought fast. His brother had come through that period in Ireland, years ago now, as well as anyone might expect after capture and torture. The Duke, and the rest of Gareth’s family, had endured a torture of their own during those missing months. They didn’t talk much about it afterwards; Gareth wasn’t the type and neither was his brother. Within, however, Roderick had endured horrors, and after his brother’s return to England he had tried to let Gareth know that he was there for him if need be, in a subtle way, without getting soppy and unBritish about it. 

He went into the bedroom, then hesitated. Gareth might be a torture survivor, but he was also a trained SAS commando and a secret agent. He had been, not to mince words, a finely tuned killing machine. And even in sleep, old habits might die hard. Roderick did not want to do the same. It would be nice to survive the festive season, after all. The Duke stepped to a safe distance from the bed and said, as firmly and soothingly as he could manage, 

“Gareth, it’s time to wake up, old chap. You’re quite safe. Everything’s all right now.”

To his relief, the figure in the bed stirred and muttered as he woke. Gareth sat up.

“Who – oh, it’s you, Rod.” He sank back onto the pillow. 

“I think you’ve been having a bad dream,” the Duke said gently. He went to sit on the side of the bed. God forbid that one should voluntarily touch one of one’s male relatives but his hand hovered an inch or so above his younger brother’s shoulder. 

“I – yes.” Even at the slight distance, he felt Gareth shudder. “Very bad.”

The Duke was not a demonstrative man, but all the same, he said, “If you need to tell me anything…” Then he stopped, embarrassed.

“It’s not – I don’t - all right then. Maybe I should talk about it.” Gareth paused and took a deep breath. “I might have to sing, Rod.”

There was a short silence.

“What?” said Roderick.

“Sing.” His brother pulled his knees up and hugged them under the blankets, then put his head down. “Oh God. Moneypenny’s organizing bloody karaoke at the M16 Christmas Party on Friday. We’ve all got to do a number. I think she’s been reading articles on team building again. I’ve never done sodding karaoke in my life. I dreamed I was standing on stage and everyone was looking at me but I didn’t know the song. And I didn’t have any words.”

The Duke was suddenly very cross. He realized that this was unfair. He stood up, abruptly, and mastered himself.

“Gareth, I am going to ask Christian if he will put the kettle on and then I shall bring you some tea.”

“Thanks! Yes, tea, wonderful.” Gareth rubbed a hand across his face. “Christ, what a nightmare.” 

**Friday**

Bond was already three sheets to the wind by the time he got to the office party, but Moneypenny was so surprised he’d bothered to turn up at all that she greeted him with enthusiasm. He looked at her with a slightly fuzzy appreciation.

“Moneypenny! You look – very eighties.”

“Thank you. It’s supposed to be.”

“I remember those little black skirts and padded shoulders. Very s – well, I’m probably not allowed to say that these days, am I?”

“Almost certainly not.” She had almost perfected the primly reproving glance by now but she had a secret suspicion that it only encouraged him. 

“Are those actually stockings?”

“You’ll never know,” Moneypenny told him firmly. She carried the drinks back to the table. Bond followed.

“Here you are, sir. Double Scotch.”

“Thank you, Moneypenny. God knows I’m going to need it.” Mallory knocked back a good half of his drink. He looked the part, Moneypenny thought, pleased. He hadn’t actually dressed up, just taken off his jacket and waistcoat. In a dark tie and a white shirt, however – yes! Excellent. Along with Ashley from accounts, in black mini and heels like Moneypenny herself, they were going to be great. 

Above all, she was determined to do better than that cow Julie Patterson in Human Resources. Knock her into a cocked hat, especially after that comment last year.

Revenge is indeed a dish best served cold. 

“I’ve done my homework. I watched the video on You Tube, as you suggested,” Mallory said. “I do remember it first time round, actually. On Top of the Pops. I must say I was rather taken with the backing band.”

“I was rather taken with Robert Palmer,” said Moneypenny. “Only later, though. I didn’t fancy him when I was little, obviously.” 

“I can never work out,” mused Q, “How Robert Palmer in a collar and tie manages to look both really hot and yet at the same time exactly like a second hand car salesman.”

This earned him a glacial stare from his boss. “I trust I do not resemble the latter, Q.”

“Shouldn’t think so, sir,” said Bond, now well and truly underway. “I should think there’ll be moist gussets the length and breadth of M16 once _you_ get up on stage.”

Swiveling around like a cobra, Mallory opened his mouth to reply and Moneypenny had not been a field agent all those years not to recognize extreme danger when she saw it. She plucked at M’s sleeve.”

“Come on, sir. Let’s do it – best if you take the lead.”

If anyone had the look of a man walking to his execution, it was M. But as the hush fell, and Moneypenny started to mime an electric guitar, rocking it out, and Mallory began to sing in a perfectly acceptable if slightly tentative tenor, she knew it was going to be all right. He was even in tune.

“The lights are on, but you’re not home…”

Afterwards, there was an enormous round of applause and not just because Mallory was the chief of the Secret Service, Moneypenny thought. Do one, Julie in HR!

“There now! That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she said brightly. She felt suddenly as though she was talking to a small boy.

Mallory tottered from the stage, collapsed into his chair and downed the rest of his Scotch in one go. He muttered something.

“Sir? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch – “ She leaned down. 

“Bah humbug, Moneypenny,” he said, into her ear. And then, fractionally more softly, looking a bit smug now, “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
